


Inventory

by ImperialEvolution



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Daniel is a gay mess and so am I, First Aid, Hotels, I'm a slut for patching up your crush's injuries, Injury, It's more like, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, gimme a break dude, i guess?, pre-relationship?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialEvolution/pseuds/ImperialEvolution
Summary: God, he needs a drink.Unfortunately, he has Warren Kepler as a substitute





	Inventory

Jacobi hates hotel rooms. They’re always two of a kind; boring with vibrant but slightly muted walls and nice, expensive looking but cheaply made furniture and a complete lack of character, or a complete mess, all whitewashed walls and couches that probably had swine flu, where character was the compliment said through gritted teeth and copious amounts of sarcasm.

Jacobi sits in one such room, sitting on a bed with his back against the headrest, too tired to take a shower, despite the need to scrub himself free of the grime and blood that he was probably coated in until he fucking bled burning in the base of his skull.

God, he needs a drink.

Unfortunately, he has Warren Kepler as a substitute.

Jacobi can see him through the doorway of the bathroom, humming softly to himself as he cleans his hands (red, of course, bruised knuckles and blood). Jacobi manages to catch his eye through the bathroom mirror, his eyes unreadable and soft. Kepler goes back to wrap his knuckles, but he as he leaves, he takes the first aid kit with him.

Jacobi shifts as Kepler walks over to him, already settling into a familiar pattern, too caught on the silhouette Kepler’s figure makes to note the softness in his eyes as he kneels in front of him.  
  
Kepler checks his pulse first and sets about taking inventory of Jacobi’s injuries, all strong hands and soft commands. _"Take off your shirt,"_ he says, barely above a murmur. _"Lift your arms,"_ he says. _"Look at me,"_ he says, all honeyed words and smooth syllables as if he can't feel how Jacobi's pulse hammers under his fingers.

Jacobi swallows, lifting his gaze to meet Kepler's, as if the dark hotel room didn't make this already too-close-for-comfort process then thousand times more initiate. He doesn’t brush his hair out of his eye, too scared to move, doesn’t say a goddamn word, he couldn’t trust his voice then. Not when Kepler's grip is so gentle on his chin, not when Kepler _looks at him like that._  
  
So, Jacobi sits, stock still, shoulders sloped and chin lifted as his superior officer prods and pokes, finding every single cut and bruise left from their mission, idly tracing old scars with those goddamn eyes, brows furrowed in concentration, as if was looking past the skin and the bruises, past Jacobi's racing heartbeat, past all that was really there.  
  
Kepler's gaze settles on one cut, a slash over his bicep, that had been staunched by the blood-slicked sleeve of Jacobi's shirt, but now gaped open. Without a word, he reached over to the first aid kit, pulling out a needle and thread and a lighter.  
  
Jacobi watches, wide-eyed, as the lighter flicks on, a small, flickering light that breaks the abyss in Kepler's eyes. Jacobi watches as the tip of the needle is held in the flame, watches how Kepler threads the needle with practiced ease.

Kepler shifts, bracing his hands on Jacobi's arm. For a brief moment, his gaze flicks to met Jacobi's, the absolute darkness of his eyes broken only by the reflection of the lighter, eyebrows raised in a slight question. Jacobi closes his eyes and relaxes his arm, knowing that tensing it will only make it worse.  
  
The doesn't flinch as the needle breaks the skin, doesn't flinch as the wound is pulled together by surgical thread and firm hands. He doesn't flinch when Kepler finishes, cutting the thread and withdrawing.  
  
Their gazes lock for a second, and Kepler moves forward, eyes narrowed, lips parted, and presses two fingers into the flesh under his jawline. Jacobi swallows, his throat suddenly sandpaper.  
  
He hated this. He hated how everything was fine one second, and he could look Kepler in the eye and not hate himself, then be a tense, shamed mess the next.  
  
Kepler must have felt how he tensed, how he flinched away from him ever so slightly because he smiled, his teeth white against the dim lighting of the hotel room, the flash in his eyes still infuriatingly visible.  
  
"Relax, Mister Jacobi," he murmurs, as if this already too-close-for-comfort process wasn't made ten thousand times more intimate by the darkness of the hotel room.  
  
His hand shifts from his neck, moving to cup Jacobi's jaw. He can feel the texture of his hands, calloused and strong, against his stubble. Kepler traces a line across his cheekbone, and Jacobi flinched, his eyes fluttering closed against his better judgment.  
  
And then he's gone, and Jacobi can hear him moving away. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to commit the feeling of Kepler's hand on his jaw to memory, but it's already fading. He opens his eyes, releasing a shaking breath, to see Kepler watching him.  
  
Kepler smirks, all dangerous undertones and powerplays, and Jacobi knows he's been played. He looks away, screwing his eyes closed and swallowing tightly, as Kepler says, "Get some sleep, Jacobi."  
  
Jacobi lies back against the bed, seething hatred and humiliation, and doesn't sleep a wink.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, talk to me @imperial-evolution on Tumblr. I don't bite, I promise. (Also, this fic's super self indulgent, but I'm tired, so I don't care).


End file.
